My husband went missing in 2005. Yesterday, I got a birthday card from him that said, «I never left — look in the basement.»…

That’s what made everything later so hard to believe, because nothing had felt broken, not really. There were no slamming doors, no whispered phone calls in the middle of the night, no lipstick stains on collars. He was just there, consistent, predictable, mine.

When people talk about the signs, they always say, weren’t there any hints? And I’ve thought about that question more times than I can count. Maybe there were. Maybe they were so small, I blinked and missed them.

Or maybe, and this is what haunts me, maybe he truly was everything he appeared to be until he wasn’t. The last birthday I spent with him was my 44th. He took me to a little diner outside of town, nothing fancy, just pancakes and coffee, but he made sure they put a candle in my slice of apple pie.

The waitress sang off key and everyone clapped, and Ella squeezed my hand under the table and said, you’re still my favorite mystery. I smiled at that. It was the kind of thing he said often, a little cheesy, a little cryptic.

At the time, I thought he meant I surprised him, kept life interesting. Now I wonder if he meant something else entirely. But in that moment, in that diner, I believed in us.

I believed in our life, our story. I believed that no matter what came next, retirement, getting older, maybe becoming grandparents, we’d face it together. I never imagined that less than a year later, he’d be gone, or that two decades after that, I’d be standing in our living room, holding a card that would unravel everything I thought I knew about him and myself.

The first red flag came quietly. No big fight, no dramatic confession, just a forgotten dinner. It was the evening of our 24th wedding anniversary, September 12th, 2004.

I remember because I’d circled it in red ink on the kitchen calendar months in advance. I’d made reservations at a small Italian restaurant in town, the one where we’d celebrated our 10th and 15th anniversaries. I put on the same blue dress he once said made my eyes look like summer skies, and even wore lipstick, something I hadn’t bothered with in years.

Ellis wasn’t home when I got dressed. I figured he’d gone to pick up a gift or maybe stopped to grab flowers. I set my phone on the windowsill and waited.

Six o’clock passed, then 6.30. At seven, the restaurant called to confirm if we were still coming. I tried calling Ellis, straight to voicemail. By eight, I was still sitting on the edge of our bed in full makeup and heels, staring at the front door like it might open on its own.

My heart wasn’t racing. It wasn’t panic I felt. It was more like confusion, a slow spreading ache in my chest.

Ellis was many things, but he wasn’t forgetful. He remembered birthdays, library due dates, when the milk expired. That was part of his charm.

So how could he forget this? When he finally walked in at 9.15, he looked surprised to see me in my dress. Oh, he said, pausing in the doorway. You’re still up.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat.

I had a meeting. He continued taking off his jacket. Parent trouble.

The Williams kids’ mother came in and wouldn’t leave. I lost track of time. No apology, just that, as if that explained everything.

I looked at him. Really looked. His tie was loose, shirt slightly wrinkled, and there was a coffee stain near the hem.

He seemed exhausted and completely unaware of the disappointment sitting in front of him. I made reservations, I finally said. Our anniversary.

He blinked. That’s today. That’s when I felt something shift, not between us exactly, but inside me, like a tiny thread had been pulled loose.

Nothing snapped. Nothing tore. But I felt it, just the same.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I can make us some eggs, he offered. I almost laughed.

Eggs. On our anniversary. Instead, I nodded slowly and went to the bathroom, locked the door, and cried quietly into a towel so he wouldn’t hear.

The next morning, there was a plastic-wrapped bouquet of carnations sitting on the kitchen table. Gas station flowers. Not my favorite.

He knew that. But still, a gesture. A peace offering….